Elminster's Daughter

Caladnei! (sobbing anguish, blind clawing and fighting}

[My apologies, Narnra. I've known sorrow too.]

Hurrying home to Turmish on a borrowed horse after hearing the dark news, along winding upland lanes to the tiny Turmish village of Tharnadar Edge. Her mother had been born there and now was gone, lost at sea, not even any bones to bury.

Her father Thabrant, still tall but now dark-eyed, grim, uncaring. A hollow shell of a man with no vigor left in him, not even any tears. She'd cried for the both of them, arms fierce around him. He'd stood like a statue, quietly telling her he'd never trust gods again.

He told her he was going to go home to Cormyr to die. "On the smallest ship I can find, Gala, with the worst crew. I hope Talos and Umberlee take me when we're on the waves, as they did her. I'll go to their altars and curse them both before I go aboard."

No chance for either of them to say goodbye to the swift-tempered, passionate bird of a woman who'd been the hearthstone for both their lives: Maela Rynduvyn, slender, deft, and quiet-footed. Her hair russet, the same strange eyes she'd given Caladnei, dusky-ski

Her father had held his gnarled woodcarver's hands awkwardly that day, the first time Caladnei had ever seen him do so. He'd cradled empty air as if he were carrying something precious or hoped to catch it by never looking at it but keeping always ready. He hadn't looked at the meal Caladnei had made for them both or at anything but her. She'd shivered often that night as she lay unsleeping in the dark watching him sitting by the window staring back at her—because she knew he wasn't seeing her but her mother. Only her mother.

Mage, I don't CARE about your dead mother or anything of your life! I just want this to be over and you to be out of my mind, my—my—

[Easy, Narnra. Easy. Show me the first thing that comes into your mind.]

Alone and hungry, that first winter, being passed a flagon by a man with an easy smile, slouched outside the open door of his hut in Dock Ward. It was more than wine, a fire in her belly that soothed and drove off the chill and helped her laugh. They told jokes and tales and snorted at each other's mimicry of the street merchants, and after a time Urrusk had taken her inside to swipe the flies from a half-gnawed roast goat-leg and hand it to her.

Her empty stomach had made her pounce on it and gnaw like a panther, and he'd laughed all the more, refilling her flagon often and just laughing when he fumbled with her lacings and couldn't find her belt and fell on his face against her shins.

Another man had lurched in the door and backhanded Urrusk away. "Dolt!" he'd snapped. "I hire you to lure the slaves, not ruin them!"

With a growl he'd reached up into the crowded tangle of oddments in the rafter and brought down some jangling manacles, advancing on Narnra with a glint in his eye that suggested he might continue where Urrusk had been hauled off, after he—

She fought weakly as he snatched at her wrists. His fingers were as cold and hard as stone when he caught her, and he'd lifted her like a doll toward a ring set into one wall, chuckling. Then up from behind him Urrusk had lurched, face twisted in rage, and thrust the chain of the second manacle around the larger man's throat, ere hauling hard.

The big man's eyes had bulged as he roared and tugged. Narnra had put her shoulders to the wall and kicked him between the legs, as high and as hard as she could, ending up bruisingly on her behind on the littered floor as he staggered, found a wall with his face . . . and she was out into the night like a rushing wind, ru

{Fear disgust rage helpless rage revulsion}

[Narnra, be easy. You're not the only one who knew trouble in Waterdeep.]

Sweating and panting in that upper room in the house off Soothsayer's Way, where old Nathdarr ran his school of the sword better with one eye than many men can fight with two. Caladnei the only lass in the room, her desperate leaps and nimble blade-work slowly turning his contempt into grudging admiration, until the night when Marcon and Thloram burst in breathless to shout at her to flee with them—now!

While she worked to become better with steel, her companions of the Sash had run riot spending their coins in the City of Splendors. Rimardo and Vonda had foolishly tried to rob a noble, and his men had captured them and tortured them to death, forcing from them the names of all in the Brightstar Sash ... as the noble's guards had jeeringly told Marcon whilst trying to impale him in a tavern, less than an hour ago.

He and Thloram had fought their way clear, with a mob on their heels and four guardsmen in livery dead, and now the Watch had joined the hounding. If she still had most of her gold, they knew where they could buy room together inside a crate being loaded onto a wagon for transport out of the city this night.

Nathdarr's look of admiration had melted back into sour disgust. He was shaking his head as they ran out the back way into the night—but when the mob came howling up to the front door of his training-room, he'd calmly put his sword through one, two, and three of them before drawing breath.

Such fun. So did you outlive all the others then come ru

[Cruel, Narnra. I'll show you why I parted ways with the Sash. You deserve that much.]

With Thloram dead and buried in the Rift, Marcon was the only one left of the jovial band who'd plucked her up from her table at the Cracked Flagon. Oh, he'd found replacements—more blades and wizards than ever, younger and even more apt to swagger than Bertro had been—but the fun was gone. Too many sad memories, too many absent smiling faces.

Wherefore she hadn't bothered to tell Marcon when Meleghost Telchaedrin had sent word that she should come to him in private. If some decadent Halruaan wanted to make an end of her, so be it. We all greet the gods sometime, and Caladnei was past caring when her time would come.

The Sash was here in the Telchaedrin family towers to accept a commission. Sarde Telchaedrin wanted them to hunt down a renegade heir before the bloodtaint spell he'd crafted spread death to every corner of Halruaa. It was a task Caladnei mistrusted, but the coin being offered was staggering—another mark of suspicion that her younger comrades in the Sash didn't seem to see . . . and Marcon obviously didn't want to notice.

Lord Meleghost was an older uncle of Lord Sarde, considered "an odd one" by the few Halruaans Caladnei had been able to mention his name to. In his younger days he'd gone adventuring outside the Walls, bringing back strange tales of colorful Faerun beyond the mountains. He was alone when she arrived in the high-vaulted, empty marble hall, standing on a high dais by a great oval window as tall as six tall men. Even beside it, Lord Meleghost was a very tall man.

"Welcome," he murmured without the usual elaborate courtesies, extending a hand to her. "Thank you very much for coming, and please accept my assurances that I mean you no harm and intend no deceit."

Caladnei blinked in surprise then gave him a smile and her hand together. "You seem in haste, Lord—a pace and a plain ma

Meleghost nodded, peering at her over his long nose like an old and weary bird of prey, and said, "As you wish. This commission is a ruse that will lead you into disaster. Sarde is steering you into unwittingly attacking a rival family of our realm. You should depart Halruaa—alone—now."